


Tempus Fugit

by minutiae



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: But in the past. Like. Decades ago., Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I shook a witcher and intergenerational trauma fell out, No Smut, Not even kisses, Past Relationship(s), Unreliable Narrator, Vesemir doesn't like that, Vesemir/Visenna - Freeform, Wraith, but it happened a long time ago, humans die, minor character death is discussed, or in the background, the sacking is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27571339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minutiae/pseuds/minutiae
Summary: Vesemir is called out to deal with a noonwraith.He's tired. Time moves so, so fast for humans. And so, so slow for witchers.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 42
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #010





	Tempus Fugit

The field was quiet and hot, as the sun approached it’s zenith. It was empty for now, but if the alderman of this tiny town was correct, soon he’d see a face he knew. A face he recognized.  
  
He’d watch Visenna grow from a wee babe in arms to a sassy child, always full of questions and demanding answers. A blink later she was a preteen who sulked and complained at her mother’s assistance of the witchers who came through, as her excessive kindness was embarrassing. Soon after, she’d become a beautiful young woman who reminded him so much of her great grandmother for whom she’d been named. Two decades seemed to have passed in a blink, and he frowned at how fleeting the flame of her life had been.  
  
Her father had given his blessing for her to marry the son of a man in a trade caravan that passed through regularly. He knew them, and had traded with them reliably for years. It was a family run caravan, that rode a winding circuit going as far south as Rivia all the way up here, to Northern Kaedwen. They’d altered their path this year thanks to Nilfgaard’s inexorable march, but by next year they might pass through Sodden again. Traveling merchants were highly favored, even in chaotic times. Trade and business never stopped, even for war. 

He trusted the alderman’s claim up to a point. He’d also watched that man grow from a babe in arms. His mother had once dragged him in front of the old witcher by his ear, caught lying about a petty theft. He stammered and begged and apologized. He had plenty of experience with unruly young boys and the same disappointed frown seemed to work on all of them.  
  
The recalcitrant young boy had grown into a wise, considerate man that he was proud of. The little village was peaceful and welcoming, his pups often finding a welcoming room in the small inn as they traveled back to the keep in late autumn.  
  
They wouldn’t be home for months yet. It was the middle of summer, and this was well off of his normal patrol routes throughout the year. All of the small towns within a few day’s ride from the foothills of the mountains knew to send a message to Ard Carraigh if the witcher’s help was needed more promptly. The young sorceress who lived there wasn’t trustworthy, exactly, but had given him a small xenovox that he left in the kitchens. If he was needed, she could call on him at dusk, when he was often preparing food.  
  
A week ago he’d gotten the message, and headed out the next morning. He had recognized the town’s name immediately, but the sorceress had little information to pass along. He usually traveled through this little town every year in early autumn, on his second patrol through the country before winter. He’d hoped to time it well enough to attend their small Velen festival, as he had heard of Visenna’s growing romance with her young beau. He’d expected to be congratulating their nuptials on his next visit, not here to observe her unrest.  
  
The song hit him before he noticed her slowly fading into existence, and he frowned, swaying forward slightly as the magic gripped him. He’d searched the field earlier, displeased that they’d waited so long to call for assistance. It wasn’t until the fourth death that the alderman had sent for him. Two children were taken, and two young men who thought they could handle the noonwraith without witcher assistance.  
  
But this midday bride was particularly vicious- the strength of her anger poured over him, the fire and passion he’d so admired in the young girl translated itself into a brutal and bloodthirsty wraith. He hadn’t yet spoken to her husband. The question of guilt would have to wait.  
  
Vesemir shook his head, drawing his silver blade. He watched her sway and scream and stalk through the field, caught by the magnetism of magic that held her here. He watched quietly from his spot perched on an old wooden fence, calmly coating his silver blade with spectre oil.  
  
The draw of her anger and the violence of her dance was hypnotic. He’d find out her story after she was laid to rest but she needed to be dealt with quickly. As much as it pained him to see a life taken so early, he couldn’t let her draw in any more victims. A major travel route butted up against this field, and her strength would only grow with time, extending the reach of her song.  
  
He tracked her wailing, meandering path for a few rounds until he had a fairly good idea of where her remains were. It was a bit farther west than they’d told him, much closer to the road. He knew as soon as he breached the perimeter of her prison she’d attack, so he walked quietly around the farthest edge, trusting the hum of his medallion.  
  
Years ago, he’d watch her dance around the fires of a Velen festival with her mother. He’d watched her sing songs of offering and thanks for the harvest. Years before that, he’d watched her mother, belly round with child, press a hand to her stomach through her labor pains. She stood strong through the pain, intent on thanking him for taking care of a griffin that had taken roost nearby, disrupting trade and terrorizing her farm.  
  
He knew Visenna’s father as a young man as well. A wild and brash boy standing on the fence he’d been sitting on only moments ago brandished a little wooden sword at him as he rode into town, challenging him to a duel. He could do nothing but oblige, batting away the child’s little wooden sword carefully with the flat of his blade. Habit had him gently correcting the boy, encouraging his attempts and efforts. Time had moved slow for the young boy, who looked forward to his yearly visits. Time moved too quickly for him. In the space of four lessons, the child became a boy no longer interested in play fighting. 

Her father would’ve been brilliant with the weapon had destiny allowed it. But she had other plans for him. Life had crashed over him in the early death of his parents, another moment he’d witnessed on his yearly trip through the town. The blacksmith’s forge had gone up in flames that year, taking half the town with it. They had rallied and rebuilt, the orphaned children absorbed into new homes, and time passed quickly. 

He could still pick out the trees that had burned near where the original forge had been. The fire damage bent and changed their shape, but just like him, they healed and moved on. The scars were now buried deep in the heart of the trees, just as his own scars were buried deep in his. The brash boy grew to be a passionate man and had fallen for the strength in Visenna’s mother, and together they had raised only one child. His luck with this family fared no better than his first, as his young wife slipped away long before her daughter was full grown. Time passed quickly.  
  
With a sigh, he stepped forward, drawing the attention of Visenna. She turned, the shrieking coalescing into an inviting, intoxicating love song, begging him to let her hold him. The song was magnetic, the magic pulling him close, pressing and twisting cold, inviting fingers into his mind.

Everything would be better, with one touch. 

  
The pain would go away, if he let her hold him.  
  
The memories would fade away, if he gave them to her.  
  
She would make the ache of loss inside of him stop.  
  
Time would stop flashing by, decades every blink, with just a kiss.  
  
He knew her promises were false, and he watched her approach. Her young, delicate face was exactly how he remembered it from the previous year, and the tattered form of her dress did little to disguise the evidence of her murder. He cast Yrden only moments before she could have reached out to touch him and the enraged shriek made him wince, shattering the last of the magical bliss she’d been wrapping him in.  
  
Her face, which had been so beautiful moments before melted into the shriveled husk of the wraith. She wailed, confined by the sign’s magic. There were no more soft promises and gentle reassurances.  
  
The magic dragged at him, clawing him close, and only his hard won patience gave him the strength to resist. They should’ve called him sooner. One of the four she had already taken had likely been gifted with magic, a meal strong enough to drastically increase her volatility.  
  
He shifted the blade in his grip, and sliced through her with little preamble and no interest in the theatrics his young pups enjoyed. He would miss this young woman, and had looked forward to watching her family continue to grow in this small town.  
  
He’d warned the boys after the sacking to trade their routes every few years. Lambert had, of course, railed at him over it. Accused him of favoritism, as Geralt had always loved to wander, and Eskel was gentle and friendly enough that he managed easily. Lambert’s brash, no nonsense temperament had made it difficult the first few years for the towns on his route to trust him. But the older two had shrugged, accepting Vesemir’s tired, sad eyes as reason enough. Eskel already knew how fast time passed, thanks to his child surprise.  
  
There had always been an unspoken rule about not pressing wounds at Kaer Morhen. The life of a witcher was hard, long, and lonely. You didn’t always succeed in saving the innocent, and when the death was tragic enough families needed an outside face to blame. It was easier before the sacking, when the faces changed often enough that villagers couldn’t hold a grudge against a specific witcher. Geralt learned how slow time passed, thanks to Blaviken.  
  
After the sackings, their routines had changed. After the sackings, everything changed.  
  
Time got slower. Or did it speed up? He gathered up the dust in a small bottle that he slipped into a pocket.  
  
Time was a tricky thing.  
  
Lambert had finally stopped complaining about trading routes after Coen started spending his winters in Kaer Morhen. Coen was one of the few who found talking the pain out helped. His territory had expanded by nature of being one of the last griffins. After a few decades of watching families sprout, blossom and die between blinks he started coming to stay at the keep. Time was slow. Time was fast.  
  
He hunted the center of Visenna’s magical cage carefully, finally finding her body, half buried and desecrated. He gathered what was left of her remains, digging through the dirt on his knees, carefully counting the bones he found. Most of them were here, and he hoped it’d be enough. His steel sword cut a swath of the crop from around her, the dry summer heat making it far too dangerous to burn the body otherwise, and he set upon her with a carefully controlled igni.  
  
The tears on his face as he ended a family line he’d watched for over a century evaporated quickly, with the heat of the flames. He held the sign until he felt the strain and drain of chaos, staggering slightly before he let go.  
  
He was too old for this. Time was slow. Time was fast.  
  
He walked slowly, spiraling outward from the body- any last artifacts or emotional remnants left behind would risk her spirit returning, and he’d circled her ashes four times before he found the necklace.  
  
It was a simple thing. A small wooden bird pendant, the leather thong snapped where it had been torn from around her neck. He cradled it in his palm for a moment, remembering the moment he’d given it to her great grandmother.  
  
He’d been old enough to know better, but they’d both been naive. Her magic didn't save her from societal expectations. Time had moved so fast, since then. He felt old, now. She’d carried his heart in her hands. They were lovers for years, both heartbroken when her father finally arranged a suitable marriage. He couldn't give her the child she needed, she couldn't give him the child he wanted. He gave her the pendant to remember him, a carefully carved mute swan. It was a promise. Neither of them had been surprised by the forced separation, but the necklace so treasured to be passed down made the ache of time heavier than ever. She was the other half of his soul, and had destiny been kinder, he wanted to believe she could've been the mother to his children. The winter of the year she married was when he’d finally accepted the position as swordmaster, stepping off the Path. He never saw her again. Time moved fast.  
  
He’d left her with this pendant and a promise that he and his own would watch over her family. It was all he could give her. She'd passed it down through her family, keeping her promise to remember him. Time moved slow. So many years later, his promise was back in his hands as a symbol of how once more, he’d lost the family destiny gave him to protect. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tagging this was hard. If you have a suggestion for something I've missed, please feel free to let me know <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Tempus Fugit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29359920) by [FrenchKey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchKey/pseuds/FrenchKey)




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